Tag: the Telling

There Is a Well Here

~ Koyote the Blind ~ 2 Comments

There is a well behind me––an old well. It has been covered by a layer of wood, also old; weakened by the constant rain and the salt that comes with the tropical wind. It has seen many years go by.

No one remembers why there is a well here, in front of these crossroads. There are no houses around. There is no settlement; no permanent resident in this area of the desert. We know from old maps that there is a river of water flowing through in front of me underground.

Sometimes I imagine the dark waters flowing from left to right. Silent. Not reflecting any light, for there is nothing to reflect. I wonder then if in the absence of the solar light this river of water perhaps reflects different shades of black.

And if it were to reflect different shades of black, who would be there to witness?

Behind me, there is a well. The well has been closed off for a long time. Unused, it is being fed by the silent waters––the dark waters. What kind of thirst, I wonder sometimes, are these waters meant to satiate?

I lend an ear to the rushing of the waters. I hear off in the distance the rustling of silent feathers. I close my eyes. I listen to the sounds of the world. They become unimportant. I listen to everything around me as I listen to the falling rain. Not one sound is more important than any other sound.

My thoughts… the constant stream of words and images and symbols, one following another, without any real meaning or logic to it. I sit here and I listen, and they flow from left to right. Moving inside me with no apparent truth in any single stream of thought; with not one image pulling me with it. I simply watch and observe the current that moves, and the lack of meaning in every sentence that is uttered does not deny the fact that there are different shades of non-meaning––different aspects of this unending stream of non-truth, of illusion.

One after the other they flow under the surface of my consciousness and I sit here and I listen for the rustling sound of silence behind the sounds of the world.

The sounds inside me become just as unimportant as the sounds around me. Suddenly, I feel myself immersed in darkness––darkness of light and darkness of sound, sustained in a space of infinite nothingness, only made trickled-reflections of passing tenuous light, lit by an ephemeral attention that is no longer focusing on anything in particular.

 

I Am the Stirring in the Void

~ Koyote the Blind ~ Leave a comment

I sit in the midst of an ocean of light, sound and silence. I am nothing. I am empty. I am the flicker of the empty void. I am the organizer of experience.

I identify myself with the contents of this body. I identify myself with the memories; memories of existing earlier today; memories of yesterday, of last week; memories of years ago.

I say “I am”, “I did”, “I was”, “I came”, “I sinned”, “I killed”, “I lied”, “I betrayed”, “I did”, “I accomplished”, “I attained”, “I saved”, “I am”, “I say”, “I did”; but I know fully well that none of those things ever happened to me. They are memories stored in this body. They are events hinted at me.

All my memories of the past are like subtle shadows that begin to fade away as the dream fades away into incomprehensible nothingness, as I awake and take on this new life and this new body full of sensations, touching space, hearing, listening, moving.

I find myself in this body, having the tenuous sensation of a dream that fades away. I know myself as the meaningless flicker, the stirring in the void, forever falling into identification with the shadows of lights, the sound, the move, the heat, the refuge against the cold night.

 

If I had to write

~ Koyote the Blind ~ 1 Comment

If I had to write that which describes you, I’d have to be able to illuminate the silence, to open the cranial plains that separate the infinite mystery from the grey thicket, and thus invent a world in which each movement of the plume would draw infinite words where each one reflects the totality of every other.

Or, perhaps, I’d simply have to touch the paper with my plume; knowing that your homonyms do not relate nor describe, but rather draw on the firmament the hidden caresses to your invisible face, without knowing perhaps, or maybe without caring, that no one could ever decipher such sketches.

Without the Swelling of the Heart, No Story Is Worth Telling

~ Koyote the Blind ~ Leave a comment

In the silence between word and word, between day and day… in the silence between dream and dream, between knowledge and understanding, between thoughts and emotions… in that silence that exists before thought and feeling become one… in that moment of silence before the pushing forth of meaning, the foundations for the making of the world flowers from the depth of the abyss.

It’s in that flowering that the tides of the waters of my heart flow unrestricted; seeking who knows what;moving where they’re being pulled.

Without the swelling of those waters, without the emanation of that light, no story is worth telling.

Click here to listen to this Telling of the Oceanic Tryptic.

A Seed Carried and Nourished by a Lineage Willed to Germinate (a book review by Viento de Octubre)

~ Koyote the Blind ~ 1 Comment

“The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor is like an ancient recording of Koyote on some level, one one may play and pause at will and even share with others nearby. Like everything ancient, it resurfaces through what it survives.

A seed carried and nourished by a lineage willed to germinate. For a Nahual, it was his call. The clever genius of this book is that it isn’t just a book. It carries a call. The Teller masterfully instals filters into the consciousness of the reader, awakening something. The reader becomes a voyager. There is a playing field that only few will enter. Koyote will continue to speak to every reader, and he will be specifically sending instructions to an intelligence that is beyond what is being experienced while engaging with the book. It is in this playing field that The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor opens as the seed; and there, in that moment, the call is transmitted.

His canvas is the Tonal. Koyote placed detailed attention into being heard by the reader. The voice of the Teller is present. Throughout the writing you will find ways and alleys, methods and formulas, doors, hacks and triggers into an inner journey the ancients call a voyage. Open the book to any page, any chapter, and the writing in any phrase will invite you in. The writing is a key to the reading. His teachings allow you to follow, daring you to know and be guided to turn on. Ancient, deeply buried mechanisms of transformation and evolution are contained within the organic human host as you read and allow yourself to follow. Alchemical furnaces internalize a heating of change-causing agents within an alchemical laboratory known as a temple by simply following along. The act of reading itself becomes the conduit through which Koyote reaches the voyager essential navigational instruction.

He Tells in magick the story teller within, the one writing your story, in a way that allows for the awakening of something deep. Contact is essentially maintained with attention. Guided through by an inner voice that sometimes becomes Koyote, sometimes your higher self, sometimes something else speaking in tones devastating to the ordinary field of thought and meaning. All that remains then is whatever you muster to gather about yourself for a quick reality check, and the book again holds your self gravitationally attracted and electromagnetically attached to whichever reality Koyote is presently presenting your presence as you read. The words proceed again to guide you into an inner world where the voice resonates, and you engage deeper and deeper with the Teachings until, again, you come to realize, as if materializing into something sacred he has already constructed elsewhere in a time long ago forgotten, that Koyote just took you there again. As you read so you voyage.

His art is the Telling, and The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor is an expression of that. It isn’t the Telling itself—not an invocation as such. It is, instead, a sculpture of the artist using elements of his artistry. On his palette one sees magick, lineage, School, Teachings, Toltec, the Telling, Tantra, Yoga, shamanism, comedy, intent, philosophy, story-telling, gaming and more. Will, Nahual, and The Great Work are impressions now left inside your eternal coding as a way to manifest just that. This is his masterpiece.”

By Viento de Octubre

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My Sacred Prayer

~ Koyote the Blind ~ Leave a comment

One day this bubble of existence will burst into a million pieces, sending fire and light, and spread it all through creation.

Or maybe it will dissolve into the liquid nothingness of the solar waters that flow from that sunset that’s been waiting to come for all eternity.

It will then be so that every experience I ever had, every word I ever said, every pain I ever caused, and every hope I ever gave will turn to be just the vibrant resonance, just the booming ocean, just the happy dance, and dissolve in that ocean of experience and move amongst your shadows as meaningless signs and sights.

May I never live through that!
May the memory of me fade away in time.
May my soul not be important.
May my life not be object of remembrance below or above.
May I not be significant.

May my shadows be forgot and go their way, where the shadows go and the light of Her eyes shine brightly.

(Click here to receive a free ebook on Shamanic Voyaging and Lucid Dreaming)

In this Center of Life

~ Koyote the Blind ~ Leave a comment

In the solitude of the night I stay, and know that all the words and all the stories are lumps of life and meaning; and in the center I find myself trapped in an island, surrounded by life, all rushing at me at the same time.

In this center of life, I can’t distinguish anything at all. There is no name. There is no God. There is no hell. There is no movement of time and space; just the glorious silence; just the breath rushing in and going out; just her touch; the soft fingers of life holding, moving around, dancing around me.

In pain and joy, her hands play with the silent center. It moves. Sometimes I play with her by moving, talking. The light pulls my arm. The wind moves. The face looks and smiles when she looks back, and in the center of this magnificent womb, what can there be if not the warm embrace, the kiss of her ecstasy? How can there be anything but the loving kiss of the angel of death?

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MARCH 2019 ROSICRUCIAN MASS SERMON: CYCLES OF TIME

~ Koyote the Blind ~ Leave a comment

From this loop so well described by Paul Rovelli, emerges an understanding of ourselves, or an inner agreement about who we are. This agreement is incorporated into the loop and colors not only the present, but also the way in which we navigate the possible future outcomes. In fact, as Heidegger pointed out, this architecture of consciousness also fine tunes the past. Our understanding of ourselves determines how we interpret and select the past as a story that happened to us. In other words, we are the authors of our personal story, and as we see our path through this lifetime, we put together a thread and weave it as a narrative. The narrator, which is our Self, takes a stance, a point of view. This point of view is determined by this architectonic time loop here described: the memories of the past inserted into the present projects a set of future potentialities out of which emerges a telos (a destiny to which we navigate). Our destiny is the possibility we are creating with our consciousness. A magician, and a shaman, has to approach the construction of this time machine consciously. It is an artifact of our sentience that can be artfully calibrated to give birth to a being who determines its self, a Nahual.

Double-Headed Eagle

https://www.amazon.com/Teachings-Toltec-Survivor-Koyote-Blind-ebook/dp/B07RMK9D4C/
~ Koyote the Blind ~ Leave a comment

At the highest realm of existence, what the Egyptians called the Sun Absolute and the Toltecs called the Double-Headed Eagle—because when it spreads its wings, all these rays come out to form multiple universes—will ultimately devour you and all that exists. It is the origin of all, and the ultimate destiny of all.

When you die, you are food for that supreme entity. Your body and all its substances are eaten by Mother Earth. If we have managed to form any sort of higher bodies, astral, etheric, Buddhic, angelic, etc., most of them are eaten by other forces at death. What remains of your essence is eaten by the eagle or taken by the Sun Absolute.

One of the tricks of the Man and Woman of Knowledge is to develop in themselves a very attractive package made of personal power, of whatever abilities they can muster, and at the moment of death, have the eagle eat that, but not him. Offer up a human sacrifice.

So, don’t waste those abilities in petty pursuits: give them up for God

(Read more in my upcoming book: Teachings of a Toltec Survivor)

Sacred Aspiration in a Fool’s Hat

~ Koyote the Blind ~ 1 Comment

How paradoxical, the nature of the search!
That which we seek, keeps moving away by the mind that places the attainment outside, beyond, later.
The immense vistas of freedom emerge, instead, as the vast horizon, always separating and unifying, in the same instant, Heaven and Earth.
And as the horizon, our aspiration remains present yet unreachable, dividing yet unifying, always perceived and never touched.
Ah, paradox of my path, holding the way and the why! You are the rim of my hat, and I but the clown who kicks his hat away every time he bends over to pick it up!